


Shotgunning Without the Front Seat

by agarina_amigara



Series: shotgunning!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom, weecest - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:32:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agarina_amigara/pseuds/agarina_amigara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is just a teenager who likes weed. Sam is just a teenager who likes his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shotgunning Without the Front Seat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takeitbabyboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takeitbabyboy/gifts).



> Wrote this little somethin somethin for Deanna, my fellow lover of shotgunning, "baby boy", amulet!kink, and Dean teaching little Sammy how to do things. Part II is posted.

The first time Sam catches Dean the smell of the dank makes him turn up his nose and sneer. Dean just laughs, red shot eyes squinting in the sun hitting the balcony railing he's leaning against. "Wanna hit?" Dean's asking him and no, Sam doesn't do shit like this, Sam's the good one and he reminds Dean of that fact. Dean laughs, brings the joint back to his lips and Sam's grimace unfurls, eyes that are never the same shade focusing on Dean's mouth and fuck. That feeling can't be right. 

The second time Sam catches him, Sam's got three hairs on his chin and a date to spring formal. Dean doesn't go to formal. Dean doesn't go to school period. He spends his days doing this. Not like he's a stoner, no. If he was a stoner dad would know and if dad knew, well, Dean's not an idiot. It's no big deal this time though, Sam's used to the smell on Dean's clothes that he sometimes presses to his face and deeply (full full so goddamn full) inhales while Dean's off putting quarters in the laundromat washer. Dean extends his hand, holding a little glass pipe made of swirls of color packed with little singed sage tinted tufts. All Sam can think is "god that's just like the color of his eyes" but he just shakes his head, hair falling in his line of vision, saying "no thanks man" and "some other time". 

The third time is different and Sam knows it, knows when the only light coming through the motel curtains is the dim glow of the tv and dad's car is gone ("it's not the first time he's left without a warning" he's mumbling, "it's not the first and it's not the last and he's gonna be back in one piece, you just wait"). He doesn’t knock because it’s just Dean, just him and Dean sharing the Same small space as usual, the Same small space that’s made him think about his big brother the way that he does (it’s the space it’s the close proximity it’s how fucked up and anything but traditional their lives are it’s not HIM) and he knows when he slides the key in the door and pushes it open that something’s wrong. Knows before the cerulean light of the tv washes over him at the same time as that smell, that smell that’s become as “Dean” as leather and cheap cologne and gun oil. 

He’s on his back when Sam comes in. On his back, freckled skin leached of its natural color, swathed in blue, now white, now blue again, and Sam can’t swallow around the smell of the weed, can’t think to even shut the door before Dean’s turning his head, hand still moving, still moving THERE, skin flushed red now, red that quickly fades back to blue. Sam’s eyes don’t wander from Dean’s, he knows better than that, but out of his peripheral he can still see the bronze of Dean’s amulet lying in the pool of his throat and god, that’s all he’s wearing isn’t it? 

Dean’s finally feigning modesty. He’s sitting up, pulling the scratchy floral comforter over his body and he’s laughing, saying “shit, Sammy, sorry”. Sam’s brain finally starts whirring again and reminds him to shut the damn door, then Dean reaches to the bedside table, fingers scrambling to pack another bowl. The flush of crimson hasn’t crept off Sam’s face when he stretches out on the queen sized bed opposite Dean but he’s not stressing about it because as far as he’s concerned it’s not gonna fade anytime soon. Dean’s exhaling now, thick smoke curling up into the faintly cloudy room. 

“Is it ‘some other time’ yet?” Dean asks him and his voice is complete gravel. Sam shrugs, figures he’s already getting a contact anyway, and Dean’s arm stretches out over the vast expanse between the beds. The pipe is still warm from Dean’s fingers and Sam looks deep into the glass, trying to find his brother’s fingerprints there somewhere. He wants his fingers exactly where Dean’s have been a dozen times and then he’s realizing, shit, he has no idea how to fucking use this thing. Using that telepathy that has most people thinking they’re seriously messed up (and maybe they are) Dean’s leaning over just a little bit, holding his hands up to his mouth, telling Sam “You put one finger over the hole on that end while you’re inhaling through the other. Yeah, like that. And then when you’ve got a few puffs down, seriously man go light this time you’re a fuckin wuss, yeah, you’re gonna let that end go and it’ll jus’ all go rushing down.”

Sam’s _trying_ , god help him he really is, but he’s just not feeling it. Everything’s sticking in his mouth, making his teeth feel dry and uncomfortable and before he knows it Dean is up, clad in nothing but boxer briefs (when did that happen?) and his amulet hanging heavy against his sternum. “Here,” Dean’s telling him, rushing the pipe out of his hands. Dean takes a hit, he’s good at this, Dean’s good everything, and then he’s holding the pipe in one hand resting against his thigh and his other hand on Sam’s chin, kind of pushing down with his thumb and just what the fuck is he doing?

Sam gets the hint, letting his jaw unhinge, and then Dean’s breathing out, breathing out, breathing INTO Sam and wait when did this start being a thing for them? His lips aren’t so much touching Sam as they’re skimming over the thinnest sliver of air between them and Dean’s hand is on his diaphragm and Sam’s realizing “Oh. Breathe.” and fuck, it hits him. Hits him hard in the gut. His big brother, this boy, this MAN, breathing into him, breathing for him and Sam can’t help it, he’s shifting closer, breath pushing back into Dean, lips touching now, sharing this like they share everything- clothes and secrets and punches that neither one of them ever put their entire strength behind. But god it doesn’t matter that they hold back when training because Dean doesn’t hold back with this, naked skin pushing over Sam, pushing him back and shit his mouth is dry but it’s okay, it’s okay because it’s Dean it’s Dean it’s Dean it’s always been Dean and Sam’s head is swimming and it’s not the weed, he knows it. It’s his brother’s fingers pushing up under his shirt and over the plain of Sam’s hips, Dean’s amulet hitting his chin when he shifts over Sam and pulls back, wicked toothy grin Sam’s seen him use on a dozen different girls but never truly like this. There’s never been this much joy behind this smile and Sam can hardly breathe knowing that it’s for him. 

“Next time we’re trying edibles, baby boy,” Dean tells him, and Sam swears he sees smoke drift out of that mouth, like Dean’s been holding in his breath, their breath, this entire time. “You know, putting the THC from the pot into food. You’d look good with spiked icing smeared…” and Dean’s leaning down again, dry kitten tongue striping over the chords of muscle in Sam’s neck. 

And for the first time in a while, Sam really inhales.


End file.
